


Cogito Ergo Sum

by fukiko



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alain Leroy is the sweetest softest boy, Evocations of Descartes, F/M, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, Using Beaugrand for Nathalie's maiden name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 12:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12013020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fukiko/pseuds/fukiko
Summary: A quiet, intimate morning, in which a young Alain Leroy contemplates what it means to exist as someone who loves and is loved. Pre-canon Leroys, sometime in the golden age of their ice dance career but before Nathalie takes Alain's name.





	Cogito Ergo Sum

**Author's Note:**

> Because I love Jean-Jacques Leroy and everyone who cares for him. Because there's no way these two, Olympic champion ice dancers, didn't have a beautiful love story of their very own. Because I'm a very impatient person and these two have years to go in the other thing I'm writing before they will have a chance to be this close.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy some olds when they were still youngs?

Alain Leroy is the introspective sort, as are most Cancers. He keeps his feelings close to the chest, as one would an amulet, touching them periodically if in need of reassurance or some confirmation of existence, a private _cogito_ : I feel, therefore I am.

I feel, therefore I am, therefore in this moment, watching Nathalie Beaugrand’s chest rise and fall as she sleeps beside him, Alain Leroy is positively thrumming with the happy fact of his own existence.

If he sets out to chart things, to plot things on a timeline, the resulting gravity is enough to make him ache. From shared rinkspace, to his feet bumping against hers under the table at a diner, to his fear of crossing her in her uninhibited mornings in the apartment they shared, to crowding together in a twin, to buying a new bed. To having his own side of the bed, the borders of which he frequently crossed to be closer to her. He does so now, an arm over her, fingers fitting into the indent of her waist.

“Morning,” she mumbles, too sleepy to switch to French for him yet. Some reconfiguring allows her to press against him, her face on his chest and her leg hooked around his. She’s warm, soft, and he holds her tight.

“It’s okay, go back to sleep. Sorry to wake you.”

“ _Non, non_.” She plants a warm kiss on his collarbone. “It’s fine.”

He runs his hand along her body, tracing the swells and dips of her. Every day sees them flush against one another, refining their synchronicity and working as one, but the touches on the ice are a world apart from the touches they discovered in private. There’s much to be said for her hand on the back of his neck, strong and steady, or a flirtatious bump of her hips as they brush their teeth side-by-side before the bathroom mirror. And there are the recent discoveries as well, his newfound realization of himself as a being who wants, and herself as a being who needs.

He’d known precious little, and she’d taken him as he was. Nathalie Beaugrand, fearsome and bold, a mausoleum housing rumors of ex-lovers, had kissed him slowly, guided his hands, and let him be close. _“Konnorónhkwa,”_ he’d said after they were done. He’d known she could tell what he meant, but after four years, it had seemed safe to share his amulet with her.

His hand moves to cup her breast, and she shifts to allow him better access. He’d been surprised to find out that she sleeps in t-shirts and shorts, simple and unpretentious. The childlike preferences that reveal themselves when freed from the spotlight and the obligation to perform. When his thumb brushes over her nipple, she makes a happy little sound, a little hum of approval.

Fingers loitering at the hem of her shirt are granted permission to lift it. She’s pale and pink, a clipped-in waist and a firm belly, full breasts. Alain marvels at the _accessibility_ of another human being, of _this_ particular human being, as he touches her with more than meandering intent. That, once in love, they’d become so familiar, with no shame in early-morning nakedness, in bedhead and bare faces. It’s trust that not only leads her to suck on his fingers, but also to let himself be held and loved, to show her, through the rushing of blood and breath, that he adores her.

“I adore you,” he says. She tilts her head so she can meet his eyes, then smiles around his fingers before sucking hard and releasing them with a little _pop_.

“You’re so generous,” she teases. “I only just started.”

He brushes his hair out of his face with his free hand. “I’m done for.”

“Probably.”

She rolls on top of him and moves up to kiss him. It’s slow and sweet, the way their kisses are, the way she’d never kissed before him. He wraps his arms around her and she showers his face in kisses, little pecks across his cheeks, on the tip of his nose, his eyelids. He’s squirming and giggling by the time she moves on to his ears and neck; half-hard, he retaliates by slipping his hands below the waistband of her shorts and giving her ass a squeeze.

Her laughter in his ear is warm and throaty. “Mmm,” another hum, this one of encouragement. He rubs circles into her hips with his thumbs. Her kisses slow, warm and wet on his collarbone, his chest. His hand is guided between her legs and she moves against his fingers, dictating a rhythm. It’s lazy and languid, suited to the pale light of morning, the soft rustling of sheets, the quiet breaths, as if still in fear of waking the other. Once again he sets to memorizing the shape of her, finding the places that coax forth the happy hums.

“That feels good,” she says.

“Good.”

She tilts her hips forward, and he slips a finger inside of her. The hums come from between pursed lips, but the moans are stronger; her mouth opens and her sounds are hot against his skin.

“Is that alright?” he asks, sincerely and not rhetorically.

“Nn… yeah… ” she scrabbles at her shirt and it’s removed, as is Alain’s shortly thereafter. His cock twitches at the sight of her bare skin, at the arch of her hips as she rocks against the heel of his hand. He strokes her hair, her face; she looks at him with half-lidded eyes and his heart swells.

“You’re so pretty,” he says. He knows it’s something that can sound weak, coming from a man to a woman, but it’s the first thing he thinks. She smiles, so he knows she isn’t mad about it. He lifts his hips. “I want to kiss you.”

He slides out of her, and she moves up to kiss him, this time more deeply than earlier. She draws his bottom lip between her teeth, just hard enough to surprise him but not enough to hurt. His hands are used to remove the last of their clothing, and then they’re face-to-face on their sides, roaming touches and little distance between them.

Her fingers are in his mouth now, and she has him get them plenty wet before she snakes a hand down to wrap around his cock. It’s his turn to moan, tucked in the crook of her neck, buried in her soft, fine hair. It’s an echo of how he touched her, a gentle exploration, appreciative and deliberate. He hisses as she dabs at the precum that’s begun to leak from the tip.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, massaging circles on the head before moving down his shaft, her grip tightening. “First thing in the morning.”

“Don’t tease me, Nathalie,” he nearly begs, still hidden in her shoulder.

“Oh?” she squeezes, and he gasps. “You don’t like being teased?”

“Th… that’s not what I meant, and you know it… ”

“ _I_ like teasing you. And being teased.” She moves closer, her leg over him, and rubs against him. She’s wet, pressing up dangerously close, dragging her clit along his length. Alain’s heart is pounding in his chest; he’s utterly lost to her.

“Nathalie… ” is all he can really say. It earns him a giggle.

“No good?” she grabs at his cock and slips it inside herself, just for a second.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, followed by a fretful, “condoms, condoms… ”

She kisses his nose. “All in good time. Still teasing you.”

She continues to move against him, and he attempts to fight against his helplessness by attending to her breasts. Her pace changes, sometimes fast, sometimes agonizingly slow. Alain knows it isn’t entirely about the pleasure. It’s about the closeness, prolonging the slow press of skin against skin, the point of connection. He loves her, loves the part of her that trusts him to just _be_ with her, that expects not performance or surrender but simple honesty. He loves to see her allowing herself to be happy, to show him that private, vulnerable, unique joy.

“No more teasing,” he manages to get out. “I want to make you feel good.”

She considers his offer without stopping her movement. “You don’t want to tease me back?”

“You know I can’t be mean to you.”

That bark of laughter, so distinctly _hers_. “It’s not — you’re not — oh, you sweet boy.”

He rolls her onto her back, spreads her legs, kisses her thighs. Parts auburn curls and follows the shape of her with his tongue before flicking it across her clit. She buries her hands in his hair and tugs appreciatively.

He knows she’s close when she pulls her knees up to her chest and when her legs start to shake; soon enough she’s cumming, arching beautifully, a broken exhalation followed by a collapse into the pillows, hands flying up to cover her eyes. He continues to plant soft kisses between her legs until he’s pulled up to kiss her on the mouth, instead. She’s flushed and all smiles, and Alain is rather bewildered by how anyone could look at him so fondly.

“You’re my favorite,” she says, kissing him hard. Then, “go ahead.”

A condom is fished out of the box in the bedside drawer. He nearly loses his breath as he slides into her; she’s so warm, feels so impossibly good, and as she laces her fingers with his he’s made to know, yet again, that this is _real_. Nathalie Beaugrand, better even in reality than in his dreams. She’s immediate, and kind, and she doesn’t raise him up to lofty heights but rather makes room for him beside her. Her breasts bounce as she moves with him, as they move together. Her hair is a mess, all tangled and mussed, but she’s gorgeous, the most beautiful woman he’ll ever know. He cums, is brought down to lay on her chest, and has his hair petted until he can catch his breath. The condom is tossed into the trash. Their positions are switched from earlier in the morning: he is held by her, feeling small but not weak. It’s safe.

“Thank you,” he says. The sun’s a little brighter now, and he feels a little more open. The amulet of his feelings isn’t tucked away, but rather borne for her to see. He’s alive with her, in love with her.

She snorts and ruffles his hair. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“It’s… I mean, it’s for more than the sex. Just… thank you, Nathalie. For a lot of things.”

Her silence makes him worry that he’s said the wrong thing, that his clumsiness with his feelings sabotaged him. But she kisses his forehead, and he knows he’s understood.

“It’s funny, huh?” A patch of sun has cut its way through the curtains, warming a precise slice of the bed. “With us. It’s just… I feel like, fundamentally, we just really _get_ each other. We get it. I’m not pretending to be anyone with you. And I don’t feel like you want me to be anyone else.”

“Why would I?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you?”

He closes his eyes. “That’s fair. People… they try to use you against yourself, yeah?”

A sigh of what Alain assumes is relief, or maybe exhaustion. “Yeah, exactly.”

“I guess I just don’t see any of what you are as a weakness. Or… as a weapon, I guess. I like you. I like being with you.”

Another laugh. Her sardonic chuckles still make him nervous, but he’s come to learn that she does it to downplay her own fragility, to affect a distance that makes reflection easier to swallow. “Good. If you said I had no weaknesses, I’d know you were just kissing my ass.”

They laugh together, bitterness extracted. The slice of sunlight migrates, and the room seems to brighten from the inside, as if it were glowing.

“I’m really glad I met you, Alain,” Nathalie says.

“I think it was fate,” Alain declares, a romantic, a believer in fairy tales, a boy who still wants to fancy himself a king.

Nathalie takes note of the other person sharing her bed, her room, her life. _Her_ proof of existence, of being something other than a lonely traveler adrift at sea: accountability to another. Someone else for whom she genuinely cares.

“Yeah.” She loves him. “I think so, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Konnorónhkwa = "I love you" in Iroquoian.
> 
> Feel free to follow me (fukiko on tumblr, yumebeats on twitter) if you, too get overly invested in extremely minor characters!


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